


Free as a Breeze

by enigma731



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Day At The Beach, F/M, Family Feels, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 03:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: “Guys, it’s the beach,” says Peter, fully expecting at least one positive reaction.Instead he gets exasperation from Rocket, something inscrutable (and typical) from Gamora, and--Groot is apparently captivated by his own feet, newly liberated from his pot, growing and retracting vines from the places where his toes ought to be.Only Drax nods when Peter meets his eyes. “I remember you speaking of your people’s beach vacations, Quill. I will share your tradition with you.”Peter takes his new crew on a vacation with...varying results.





	Free as a Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fennethianell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fennethianell/gifts).



> A birthday gift for the incredibly talented and super sweet [Fennethianell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fennethianell/pseuds/Fennethianell), inspired by [her amazing art](http://fennethianell.tumblr.com/post/165850287557/how-about-some-vacay-well-deserved-on-the), and a recent group chat on the starmora Discord server. With thanks to [invisibledaemon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon/pseuds/invisibledaemon) for brainstorming and beta, and to [poprocks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poprocks/pseuds/poprocks) for naming the awesome beach planet.

“ _Hell_ no.” Rocket slams the Milano’s controls into the position that Peter’s always thought of as ‘parking brake on.’ Then he slumps back in his seat and pastes on his very best glare. “ _This_ was your big secret, Quill?”

Peter sits up at the edge of his own chair, grinning. “Yeah. Isn’t it awesome?”

Outside the ship’s front window are the vivid purple sand and crystalline pink ocean of Heplar VII, one of the most exclusive resort planets in the galaxy. Or at least that’s what Yondu’s always said, and it seems to be true enough, judging by the number of credits he had to shell out to buy them a single day on one of the private beaches here. 

“If your idea of _awesome_ is taking a dirt bath like an animal, then maybe,” Rocket grumps.

“Are you not an animal?” comes Drax’s voice from the back of the cockpit, and Peter glances over his shoulder to see that he’s soundlessly managed to appear from below, as he does.

He groans. “Guys--”

Rocket shoots up out of his seat, all of his irritation suddenly directed at Drax. “You wanna say that again, muscle head? Are _you_ an animal?”

Drax shrugs, unperturbed. “Technically yes.”

Rocket throws up his hands. “Fine. _Fine._ Go roll around in the sand with Quill.”

“Guys, it’s the beach,” Peter tries again, fully expecting at least _one_ positive reaction, given all the good memories he has of this place. Well, of Earth’s version of this place, anyway. He’s never had the luxury of even considering a visit to the Heplar system without either the Ravagers or the Nova Corps on his ass. 

Instead he gets exasperation from Rocket, something inscrutable (and typical) from Gamora, and--Groot isn’t even _giving_ him a look, he realizes. Groot is apparently captivated by his own feet, newly liberated from his pot, and is currently growing and retracting vines from the places where his toes ought to be. 

Only Drax looks even mildly interested, but at least he nods when Peter meets his eyes. “I remember you speaking of your people’s beach vacations, Quill. I will share your tradition with you.”

A grin curves Peter’s lips upwards, his enthusiasm flooding back at that simple statement. “That’s more like it.”

* * *

Swimwear in space, it turns out, is remarkably similar to the things Peter remembers from his one and only beach vacation on Earth. 

Well, in general terms, at least. 

They don’t have Mickey Mouse swim trunks or sunglasses out here, and he distinctly remembers wearing those last time. He remembers a lot of things about last time -- the white and blue of the Florida coast, the boom box they’d used to play music on the beach, his mother’s laugh as she’d danced in the waves.

Today he’ll have to make do with plain blue swim trunks, and the utterly alien landscape of the pastel beach. He’s _not_ complaining about the company, though, even if they seem to lack appreciation for the wonders of sand and surf.

Peter is the first one off the ship, already barefoot and dressed for the water. He’s left his Walkman in his bunk for once, not trusting it with the environment here. The sun is pleasantly warm, though not hot, and there’s a breeze blowing that smells subtly sweet. The sand feels--well, un-sand-like under his feet, though it’s not a _bad_ sensation, strictly speaking. It’s just--sticky, almost. Springy. It feels more like rubber than its Earth counterpart. 

He walks a few yards away from the ship, glancing back over his shoulder. Nobody else has come out to join him yet, which isn’t entirely surprising considering that this whole trip was a surprise, for one thing...as well as the fact that the team tends to be anything but efficient or organized when doing anything other than a formal job. 

Sighing, he sits down on the strange ground and focuses his gaze on the waves. This place is _amazing_ , without a doubt. And yet, like so many other places in this crazy, unbelievable galaxy, it also makes him homesick, makes him ache for a time and a place and a family he _knows_ don’t exist anymore.

“Peter?” 

He turns to find Gamora standing a few feet behind him, dressed for the beach, presumably. She has a towel wrapped around her shoulders, though her feet and legs are bare beneath it. He notices for the first time that there are subtle silver lines along the outside of her legs, similar to the ones on her face, though less delicate. He’s relatively certain that the markings are scars, because he _knows_ about her cybernetic implants, knows that the locations make sense. Still, it feels too personal to ask.

“May I join you?” she asks, and he realizes that he still hasn’t responded.

“Yeah,” he answers quickly, patting the weird ground next to him. “Yeah, of course. That’s kinda the point of the trip.”

“Me joining you?” She takes the towel from around her shoulders to cover the ground next to him, and Peter’s breath catches abruptly in his throat.

Gamora is wearing a sleek black swimsuit, top and bottom joined together by a metal ring. The back and sides are open, though, her skin radiant in the sunlight, against the backdrop of the purple sand. There’s more silver encircling her upper arms, curling along the curves of her hips, but he only observes it in passing. Mostly, he finds himself taken with how _soft_ she looks, how at-ease, the warmth in her eyes as she meets his, like she’s sharing some sort of a secret. He forgets instantly the strange ache of nostalgia that’s been plaguing him all morning, feels as though the sun’s suddenly gotten about ten degrees hotter. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, then realizes he’s forgotten the question. “Wait, what?”

“The day is pleasant,” says Gamora, sitting down beside him and crossing her legs at the ankles, either unaware or unperturbed by the way he still can’t stop working his gaze over her.

“Yeah,” he says again, because he’s fairly certain he’s forgotten all other words. “Yeah, the _day_ is.”

* * *

“Quill,” comes Drax’s voice from above, “what are you doing?”

Granted, this is not the most dignified position Peter’s ever found himself in. They’ve moved further down the beach, toward the edge of the ocean, though still safely separated from the water. He’s kneeling in the middle of the sand that’s been dampened by the day’s earlier high tide, packing some of it into a pot he’s borrowed from the Milano’s galley. 

“I,” he says with more confidence than he feels, “am teaching Groot how to build a sandcastle.”

Groot is sitting in the sand a couple of feet away, uncharacteristically still, though Peter can’t tell whether he’s actually paying attention or focused on something else entirely. Gamora has moved her towel down the beach to stay with the group, and is currently stretched out on her stomach, watching them. Rocket, for his part, is MIA, still refusing to come anywhere near the sand.

Drax takes a step closer and leans over with his hands rested on his thighs, still looming over Peter, though his expression is one of curiosity rather than intimidation. “How does one construct a castle out of sand?”

“Like this,” says Peter, as he finishes filling the pot and upends it, trying to tap the sand out without losing its structural integrity. It works--kind of, forming a broad cylindrical structure that’s only a _little_ caved in. He looks up, glancing between Groot and Drax. “See? There’s the foundation. Now we’ll add another level, because I’ve never heard of a castle that’s only one floor.”

He examines the other things he’s brought out from the galley--a couple of smaller pots, and a bowl. Selecting the next smallest pot, he fills it up with sand and gently empties it on top of the first layer, holding his breath until he’s sure it’s going to hold, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

“ _Why_ would one construct a castle out of sand?” Drax asks, apparently still stuck on this.

“Um.” Peter shrugs. “Because it’s fun?”

“But who would rule from such a castle?” Drax insists, and for a moment Peter wonders whether it’s actually possible for him to be this confused, or if he’s just being intentionally irritating. 

“The Sand King, obviously,” says Peter, then thinks better of it. “Nobody. It’s just--It’s just a game.” He builds a third level onto the structure, then decides it’s time for the smallest bowl he’s brought. He holds it out to Groot. “Our castle is almost complete! You want to do this next one?”

Finally exploding into motion, Groot shrieks in delight before ploughing straight through the sand structure, vines leveling the whole thing in a matter of seconds. 

Peter sighs. “Or you can do that, I guess.”

* * *

Drax finds the first shell, unfortunately by stepping on it.

“Ouch!” he exclaims, so loudly that Peter jumps, and Gamora gets to her feet, already halfway to a defensive posture as she joins them at the edge of the waves. 

“What happened?” she asks, looking at the patch of sand he’s standing on, barefoot for once, though still wearing his usual pants. 

“I was attacked!” says Drax, bending to examine the sole of his foot, then digging around until he emerges with a jagged hot pink shard. “By this!”

Gamora takes it cautiously from his palm, holding it up to the light to examine it. “There doesn’t appear to be anything sentient here, Drax. I don’t think you can say that it attacked you.”

Drax crosses his arms. “I just did.”

She rolls her eyes, sighing. “All right, you can _say_ it, but it is not accurate.”

Peter grabs the shard out of Gamora’s hand, examining it eagerly. Aside from being hot pink, it’s shaped not unlike the shells he remembers from Earth’s beaches, though it’s cracked down one side, making it sharp.

“I didn’t realize there were shells here!” he says excitedly, still taking in the astonishing color of the thing. “Anyone wanna collect some? See if we can find one with the sound of the ocean in it!”

Gamora takes the shell back from him, looking at it with vague concern. “These are capable of capturing sound?”

“No, no,” says Peter, torn between laughing at the misunderstanding and an immediate appreciation for why that idea would be alarming to her. “They don’t capture sound, just some of them, when you put them to your ear, it sounds like--You know what? Just help me look for one where I can show you.”

“All right,” she agrees, though she still sounds somewhat skeptical. 

“I want nothing to do with those things,” Drax grumbles, and stalks off to sit by the towel Gamora’s vacated.

Groot tags along at their heels as they search, presenting a shell to Gamora every few minutes. It becomes like an assembly line, almost: he finds them in the sand, then shows them to her, and she finally passes them along to Peter for his examination. The shells here are beautiful, unquestionably, bright jewel tone shades like the sand and the sky, every color imaginable. They look almost fake to his eyes, like they ought to be made out of plastic. 

Most of the shells, though attractive, are far too small for what Peter wants to do. He’s beginning to think that they won’t find one, that he ought to just give up, when Groot calls out from a few steps ahead. 

He’s found a shell far larger than all of the others so far, similar to the shape of a conch. It’s a shade of purple that nearly camouflages it with the sand, and Peter’s suddenly glad that none of them stepped on _this_ one. 

“Perfect!” says Peter, but as he reaches down for the shell, it moves--just a few inches of skittering, but it’s enough to make him draw his hand back in surprise.

Groot, however, is completely unperturbed, following the thing and snaking a vine out toward it.

“Wait!” Peter tries, but he’s too late, of course. 

Groot knocks the shell over, exposing a creature beneath it that looks something like a crab, but with a longer body and bright blue exterior. Its pincers are plenty formidable, though, and it aims them straight at Groot.

“Hey!” says Peter, as the two become immediately entwined in a scuffle down the beach. “Hey! Hey, stop!” He chases them for a few feet as they roll head over heels, but it’s not like he can really do anything to interrupt the fight without getting his own hand pinched or worse. 

“Let them go,” says Gamora, watching. “Groot can handle it.”

As though to prove the point, Groot gets the thing wrapped in his vines a moment later and tosses it into the waves. 

“I am Groot!” he proclaims triumphantly, then turns around to present the shell he’s won to Peter.

“Well,” he says, taking it gingerly, his head spinning a bit over the way everything’s just happened so quickly. Still, he turns to Gamora, taking a deep breath. “So, what you do is you take the shell and put it to your ear like this.”

He glances inside of it for a moment, just to be _sure_ there’s no other creepy crawlies waiting to surprise him. It’s empty, so he lifts it up to listen to it--and finds himself hit immediately by a staggering wave of nostalgia. He remembers doing this on the beach at home, remembers his mother showing him the secret of it, the way her face lit up, hearing it herself. This shell is simultaneously achingly familiar and alien all at the same time, and for a moment all Peter can do is hold his breath and swallow against the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Hey,” Gamora breathes, the light brush of her fingers on his wrist making him jump and look up at her. “May I try?”

“Yeah,” he answers quickly, handing the shell over and watching the way she draws her hand back, as though she hasn’t been paying attention to what it was doing before. “Yeah, of course.”

She holds the shell to her ear, nodding after a moment as she apparently hears the delicate hushed sound. Her gaze stays fixed on his face, though, letting him know that she hasn’t missed his reaction.

* * *

The waves on Heplar VII are less predictable than the ones Peter remembers on Earth. The ocean will be still for several breaths, deceptively quiet, only for a wave to spring up out of nowhere, a few feet from the shore. It’s not like the waves he knows, that roll in from the horizon with plenty of warning. Still, these are intriguing all the same, and so beautifully clear, like the proverbial rose-tinted glasses. 

Gamora is the first one to wade into the water, while Peter’s lying half asleep in the sun. She doesn’t hesitate, just slips straight in all the way up to her waist, then goes still, gaze fixed on something in the distance, or possibly the sky. 

Peter sits up, watching her for a few minutes. She lets the waves break over her, as though the water doesn’t faze her, as though she might not even be able to feel it.

“Hey!” he calls, getting to his feet and moving to join her. The water is incredibly warm, so much so that it reminds him of being in a bathtub. It isn’t salty, either, but rather carries that oddly sweet smell that’s been on the breeze all day. It’s almost fruity, something that probably would have been marketed as ‘tropical’ were they on Earth. He wonders for a moment whether he’ll be sticky when he gets out, then decides that he doesn’t care.

“Hey!” he repeats, when he gets within Gamora’s earshot, and she finally turns to look at him. “What are you doing?”

She gives him a vaguely confused look. “Enjoying the water. Isn’t that part of why one comes to a beach?”

“Sure,” says Peter, swallowing as he takes in the way her swimsuit is clinging now that it’s wet. “Sure, yeah, of course. But you’re not supposed to just let the waves hit you in the face.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Why not? They are not harming me.”

“Yeah, but that’s no fun,” he counters. “You’re supposed to jump over them.”

“Jump over them,” she echoes, clearly skeptical of this prospect. “Are you being serious, Peter?”

“Yeah, of course!” He grins. “I’m always serious.”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “No, you aren’t. And I do not think you possess the athletic capability to jump over one of these waves.”

“Oh, no?” He gives her a determined look. “Watch me!”

It takes a moment for the next wave to form, but when it does, Peter bends his knees and watches it closely, jumping just as it crests and breaks. He doesn’t get all the way _over_ it, of course--that was never going to happen--but he does manage to keep his head and shoulders above it, so he’s going to call that a win.

“See?” he asks, turning to Gamora, who’s freshly soaked from it.

“I see that you did not clear the height of it,” she answers, shaking her head.

Peter sighs. “That’s not the point. The point is to keep your head above the water. Which, by the way, is a generally good life rule.”

“Will you drown if you fail?” asks Gamora, looking slightly concerned.

“No!” he says quickly. “No, it’s just a game. Hey! Bet I can jump more waves than you! First one to go under loses!” 

She looks as though she’s going to protest, but she doesn’t get the chance. Another wave swells directly in front of them, then, and Peter catches the flash of movement in his peripheral vision as Gamora jumps it, perfectly in sync with him.

“Yes!” he yells, as though he hasn’t just challenged her to a competition, as though he’d rather she win. “Yes, exactly!”

“You do not have the stamina to best me at this,” says Gamora, as they jump the next wave.

For half a second he wonders whether he ought to be hurt by that, but then he glances over and sees the glint in her eye, realizes this is her overly-serious version of talking smack. 

“But I have so much more practice,” Peter retorts, as they jump again.

He loses track of how long they keep going, evenly matched for the moment, though he can feel his muscles beginning to fatigue. Gamora is undoubtedly right--there’s no way he’ll ever best her in a competition of physical strength or endurance, but he’s enjoying himself immensely all the same.

The wave that finally takes him down comes impossibly quickly, kicking up on the back of the one before it, so that it hits him square in the face just as he’s coming down from his last jump. It takes him completely by surprise, knocking the breath from his lungs and making him lose his balance. He’s choking on water as he falls backwards, feels the momentary panic of gravity dragging him downward--and then Gamora catches him firmly by the shoulders.

She waits for him to catch his breath, supporting his weight against her body as he blinks the water out of his eyes and gets his equilibrium back. 

“I win,” she breathes, her lips tantalizingly close to his ear, then straightens and hauls him to his feet.

* * *

Groot catches a monster for dinner.

In truth, they all lose track of him late in the afternoon, which probably ought to be more alarming than it is. In fact, nobody’s even realized that he’s gone until he reappears, dragging one of the largest and strangest fish Peter’s ever seen through the sand.

“Wow,” says Peter, as he drops the thing at Gamora’s feet, uncomfortably reminiscent of a cat presenting a dead bird, only way more terrifying. 

“Excellent hunting,” says Gamora, smiling broadly and leaning down so Groot can climb into her palm.

The fish is lime green, with tough-looking scales and spikes lining its gills, making Peter glad he didn’t know things like that existed in this ocean until _after_ he was done playing in it. It’s thoroughly dead, though, and the handy guide to galactic fauna on the holo informs him that it’s suitable for eating, so that seems the only reasonable course of action.

Groot rides on Gamora’s shoulder, both of them watching as Peter drags the fish back up the beach. They build a fire on the sand just outside the space where the Milano is docked, Drax pitching in to fashion a spit to roast the thing on. By the time it’s getting dark, the meat is actually starting to feel appealing, and Peter realizes how hungry he is following the afternoon in the waves.

“We should get Rocket out here,” he says, almost absently, because this most definitely feels like it ought to be a meal shared among all of them.

Rocket’s been missing practically since their arrival, stubborn as always about his hatred of the sand and refusal to get any of it stuck in his fur. Peter hasn’t bothered to try and coax him out, partly because he’s been too busy enjoying his time with the others, and partly because he’s _learned_ how futile it is to try and talk Rocket into doing anything he’s decided against.

Now, though, he pokes his head inside the open door of the ship. “Rocket?”

There’s no immediate answer, no signs of movement, though he’s certain Rocket’s here somewhere. 

“Rocket, you wanna come eat dinner?”

Still nothing, and Peter takes a few steps closer before realizing that he’s tracking sand inside. Reactions of the others aside, that’s not going to be any fun if it gets in his bunk, so he backtracks, doing his best to kick the grains he’s already shed back out onto the beach.

“Rocket!” he calls one more time, voice as loud as he can raise it. “Come on, fresh sea monster for everyone! If you wanna avoid the sand we could, like, build you a little red carpet out of beach towels! Well, I guess it wouldn’t be _red_ , but it would be a carpet and you could pretend--”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, interrupted suddenly by the familiar opening strains of Southern Nights, impossibly loud as it’s projected out into the air. He’s grown accustomed to hearing music through the tinny old headphones, or through the cassette player in his bunk, but this--this is something else entirely, a speaker system that must be wired through the whole ship. It’s like the best boom box he ever could have imagined, and his heart leaps into his throat as Rocket finally appears, having clearly been working on this all day, while avoiding the beach.

“You said somethin’ about food?” he asks, then brushes past Peter before he can find words to respond.

* * *

It’s late when Peter slips back down onto the beach, the fire burning low and the others in their bunks.

He’s showered off most of the sand, changed into the sweats and t-shirt he usually wears to sleep these days, but he’s still nowhere close to sleep. The memories this day’s stirred have him feeling oddly restless, and he follows the instinct outside, intending to walk.

He doesn’t immediately recognize Gamora when he sees her from behind, has a moment of alarm at the thought that they aren’t as alone down here as the reservation had promised. It clicks as soon as she turns her head to meet his eyes in the dying light, though--she’s changed as well, into loose pants and a long shirt that conceals the slightness of her form, wet hair piled high on her head. Evidently she’s had the same idea to come down here, though he apparently missed her exit from the Milano.

“Hey,” he breathes, moving to stand next to her. “What’re you doing out here?”

She gives him a pointed look. “I could ask you the same.”

Peter shrugs. “Decided to walk off some of the sea beast we ate.”

Gamora smiles faintly, relenting. “The ocean is beautiful. I thought I would spend more time with it before leaving.”

“It is,” he agrees, oddly touched by the wonder in her tone. “Have you ever seen an ocean before?”

She shakes her head. “Not like this. Not when I was just--free to enjoy it.” For a moment she’s quiet, looking down at the sand. Then she turns back to him. “What made you bring us here?”

“Had the money,” Peter says evasively. “Seemed like we were due for a vacation. Team bonding and stuff, right?”

“Right,” she allows. “But why _here_ specifically?”

He shrugs again and runs a hand through his hair. “Saw a commercial. Thought it looked pretty.”

“Peter.” Gamora turns fully to face him, then, seeing straight through his bravado as she is increasingly often lately. “This place has meaning to you, I’ve been seeing it all day. Now it will have meaning to me, too. I would like to understand, if you’ll tell me.”

He takes a breath, blows it out, and decides that he trusts her--not just with his life, he decided that a long time ago--with the most fragile, precious memories he has. “Before my mother got--When things were still--good. She took me on a trip, all across the country. We saw lots of cool things, but the beach was my favorite. Sometimes I still think that might have been the happiest day I’ll ever have in my life.”

Gamora moves slowly, precisely, resting her hand against his forearm. “I know that it will never be the same. But you should know that I am grateful to you for sharing this place with me.”

“Walk with me?” he asks, looking down at her hand, then up at her face again. She looks radiant still, even in the night.

She smiles, then nods, then leads the way into the warm moonlight.


End file.
